


Tales Facing Up

by romanticalgirl



Category: Generation Kill, Southland
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone in a uniform is a good guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales Facing Up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://attempt-unique.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://attempt-unique.livejournal.com/)**attempt_unique** for the Generation Kill Minor Characters Ficathon. She requested: Trombley - the tall tales he tells about the war when he comes back. (bonus points for Southland crossover, he did want to join the LAPD.)
> 
> Originally posted 8-24-09

Maria hates L.A. She wants to go back to Michigan where it’s not as dangerous, where it’s not as loud. He tries to tell her that they’re fucked in Michigan, that he can’t make enough money there to support one kid and another one on the way. He can’t tell her that Michigan sucked his soul out of him, that he was afraid if he stayed there, he’d end up like his old man, and his old man’s dad, and on and on, generation after generation. She just tells him that she doesn’t like him out on the streets, a target for whatever and whoever has a grudge against the _policia_ this week.

He hates when she does that, speaks Spanish instead of English, makes them look more white trash than he likes. Bad enough that they live in this dump of an apartment with one bedroom and a walk-in closet that serves as the kid’s room until he outgrows it or the other one arrives, whichever comes first.

The L.A.P.D. is easier than the Marines to get into, the psych evaluations geared more toward whether he’s suffering from PTSD than if he’s actually fucked in the head. He meets their requirements and makes it through the Academy, finding himself on the street in a little over six months, riding in a black and white with a training officer.

Dewey’s a drunk. That’s clear from the first day, but he’s more than content to shoot the shit with Trombley all day long. They take a few calls and Dewey laughs his ass off at most of them. They’re garbage calls – domestics and bullshit – but they’re something new and different. He’s used to gunfire and sleepless nights. He’s used to waiting around for nothing to happen. This isn’t much different than the Corps. Besides, he looks better in black.

Two weeks in, he’s had to fill out his own progress reports, because Dewey’s handwriting is atrocious. Trombley can feel eyes on him – fucking John Cooper, the current golden boy – and knows that he disapproves. According to Dewey, Cooper’s a fucking faggot, so Trombley just ignores him. He’s never sure if people mean it anymore, what’s real and what’s not. The Corps desensitized him when it comes to guys talking about other guys’ dicks and asses and jerking off.

Still, the bar’s a decent one, and he doesn’t want to go home to an infant and a pregnant wife, so he sits on the stool and listens to the tales Dewey’s telling get taller and taller. Every heist that’s gone down in the past twenty years happened when Dewey was on shift, and after a while, it’s too much. Trombley doesn’t actually mean to start talking, he just does, words shooting out like bullets from the Zeus, not stopping until he gets taken out with an air strike.

“I was in Recon.” He starts small, because he’s not really sure Dewey’s listening yet, and he wants an audience for this. No one here fucking reads Rolling Stone, so the story is his to tell, to change and mutate to his own whims. He’s almost surprised how much comes out as truth, and even more surprised at how much it all sounds like lies.

He gets a laugh when it comes to the camels and an even stronger one when he tells Dewey about the kids. He tells Dewey about the fact that they called him Whopper, Junior, and why, and he tells him that he doesn’t know how to feel bad about those kids. He did his job, and he did it _well_. He did what he was supposed to do, under orders, and because some overzealous mother dragged her kid into camp, he ended up being the bad guy. He talks about smoke grenades and how it was a badge of honor to shoot between the eyes, how the good guys looked just like the bad guys and the only way to tell them apart was when they started shooting at you.

He talks about the Zeus and how it felt to kneel there and watch it, to hear everyone yelling and not care. Like he was some sort of invincible god, some immortal, waiting for the sign. He talks about Colbert’s hand on his shoulder and how he was braver than even the fucking Iceman, not afraid to die.

“Everybody dies,” Dewey informs him, drunk off his ass on cheap rum and cheaper beer.

“So what’s the point of being afraid?” Trombley takes a drink of his own beer, looking up as Cooper sits next to him. “Right? I mean, if you’re going to die, if you’re number’s up…why be afraid? And if they’re shooting at you, you just shoot back. Someone’s going to die. Isn’t it better just to keep firing until they stop?”

“Recon Marines are _warriors_ , kid.” Cooper’s voice is low and measured, and Trombley realizes he didn’t even hear him approach. “Warriors. Not killers.”

“We kill people.”

“Yeah,” Cooper nods, not arguing but not really agreeing either. “You kill people when you have to, but it’s the _last_ resort. Recon Marines watch, observe, gather intelligence. They’re hard-assed motherfuckers, but they’re not killers unless they have to be. It’s not what they do.”

“How would you know?” Trombley knows he sounds defensive, but he can’t help it. Can’t help the same petulant tone that Colbert brought out in him. “What the fuck do you know about Marines?”

“I was one.” Cooper tosses a few bills on the bar. “Make sure Dewey gets home in one piece, kid.” He starts to walk off then stops, shaking his head. “You’ll tell them the truth and they won’t believe you. They can’t believe you, because believing you means someone else can do what they can’t. They go to war on the streets every fucking day, but there’s nothing grand or honorable about it. They go to war against kids jacking themselves up on drugs and holding up people who are just trying to make an honest living. In the government’s wars, you’re fighting the bad guys. Here, you’re fighting yourself. Truth or lies, kid. They won’t believe you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah. I could have guessed you were a Marine. The whole fucking Corps is like a homosexual playground.”

“I guess then, if you are a Marine, then you really are a faggot.”

“Yeah, I am.” John smiles. “But then, by that logic, so are you.”  



End file.
